


guillotine's glint

by Xirdneth



Series: on the edge of actuality [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, I don't know how to tag this, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, living in hiding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 01:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12446500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: A series of small glimpses into the immediate aftermath of Margot and Alana's escape, all the while, paranoia borne of Hannibal's threat looms above them.





	guillotine's glint

The day's finally here: the prophesized escape of _Hannibal Lecter_. Nothing more than a ruse, but it isn't Jack Crawford's, hers, or even Will's. It is Hannibal's. After all, one can't escape when they were hardly caged in the first place, can they?

 

*

 

She gathers up her life, which consists of a few suitcases, her wife and her son. She doesn't know where she's going until she's already in the air, picking from a selection of pre-prepared locations that only she and Margot were privy to. They don't go anywhere elaborate, because that's more Hannibal's taste, and God forbid they run into him; they go to Canada, the furthest reaches manageable, where a small cabin is waiting for them, stocked like an apocalypse bunker.

 

*

 

Morgan adapts well to their downsized home. She's so proud of him. Not a snooty, spoiled boy at all; he mourns the loss of his luxuries, but he delights in the new surroundings, all full of that innocent joy only children have. She finds herself smiling despite herself as she and Margot drag their suitcases into their interior. They will have to do most things themselves, but that's hardly a sacrifice. There is safety in their small numbers. She catches Margot's eye and offers a smile, which Margot returns as best as she can, but it is weak; she looks closer to the woman she first met than the woman she married, and it pains her so sharply that words would never be able to capture it.

 

*

 

There is one bedroom with one bed. They sleep with Morgan between them, cocooned by their heartbeat. Alana sleeps for half the night, and then Margot, then they are awake at dawn. In her time as a watcher, Alana listens to her family's breathing and thinks of it as a hymn, as a prayer, and hopes that the heavens are listening.

 

*

 

It is a week later that it becomes real. They are watching the news in their small living room, on a tiny rounded cube television. Morgan is playing on the carpet with some of the toys he brought. Margot is in the kitchen, which is the same room as the living room, making mugs of hot cocoa to ward off the chill. The clinking of her spoon ceases when the reporter comes onto the screen, an Asian woman with dark brown skin, smooth hair and wide, frightened eyes:

_Hours after Hannibal the Cannibal's escape, it appears he has already claimed two victims._

        Alana's heart lodges into her throat, thick and heavy; there weren't supposed to be two. _Oh, Will, what has he done to you? What have you done to each other?_

_Francis Dolarhyde, also renowned as the Tooth Fairy, was found dead just outside the sea-side hideaway home, which remains underneath Lecter's name to this day, after what appears to be a savage slaughtering. While it is hard to shed tears for his death, what is truly frightening is that Will Graham, FBI consultant and favourite chew-toy of Lecter, has disappeared. Sources have said that all that remains of him, so far, is the blood staining Lecter's living room floor._

        Blood is rushing in her ears. She hears herself, underneath the reporter's voice, three years younger: _please, tell me you'll save him_.

_The same can be said for Lecter; other than his blood, there is no sign of him. Sources say that his, and Graham's, blood can be found on the cliff edge. Theories dictate that after forcing Graham to bear witness to his grotesque mutilations of Dolarhyde, he shoved Graham into the sea, hoping for the fall to kill him; his disappearance, however, suggests that Graham may not have been the only one to fall._

        She shuts off the television, because if there is no body, there is no point.

 

*

 

That night, when Morgan is sleeping sound between them, she and Margot lie awake. “No proof of life,” Margot says, her voice soft as Morgan's breathing.

        “No proof of death, either.” Her voice is flat, dry as her eyes; she can't remember when she last blinked.

        “If he survived, Will might...” she trails off, searching for words. “He won't let him,” she says, though Alana is not deaf to the thread of uncertainty there. She wonders if it is doubt of Will's character, or Will's survival. She doesn't know which is worse.

        “You should sleep,” Alana murmurs, runs her fingers through Margot's hair, “you'll need to be up in a few hours.”

        They look at each other for one long moment, but there is no more room in their life for arguments. Margot nods, and curls herself in closer, cradling Morgan close to her chest.

 

*

 

Weeks pass, and the news offers nothing. Alana doesn't even know why she bothers, anymore. Sometimes she wishes she could just shut it off, for good, and allow her family whatever peace is left for them. But she can't. Ignorance is a bliss she cannot afford to feel.

 

*

 

Spring is coming, and with each day the sky gets a little bluer, the air a little warmer. Morgan plays in the garden now, never a few more meters away from their home. The border of trees is further still, and foreboding as it usually is, the spring's light transforms it into a protective wall of emerald. Morgan makes daisy chains.

        Margot leans her head on Alana's shoulder. They fit together perfectly, like they were destined to slot together. Alana exhales a half-sigh, but it is not one of exhaustion or some other negative parasitic emotion; it is one of completion. These small affections are all they can allow themselves. “I love you, you know that,” Margot murmurs, turning so that the words breathe against her neck. Her eyelids flutter shut at the caress of breath for only a moment, and then she is rapt again. Watchful. “You're my world.”

        Her arm tightens around Margot's waist. Morgan plays closer still, as if his body knows how dangerous it is, the open space. She allows herself a moment of vulnerability to turn, to meet her wife's eyes, and says into her crown, “and you're mine.” She punctuates it with an ellipsis of kisses, all along her hairline. The sound of sheer serenity that breezes its way out of Margot's lips is something Alana wants to immortalize, so that she may never forget it. She tilts her chin up so that she might drink in the sound, lips plush against her; it is chaste, but wet, as intimate as they can allow themselves. The familiarity of Margot's inner workings—the movements of her tongue, each curve of her tooth and each little playful nip—is a comfort to her, one so profound it nearly banishes every trace of terror from her. When they part, they watch Morgan, who has finally finished his daisy chain.

        “Look!” he holds it up, mouth wide; he's missing a tooth, one that came loose all by itself, and the tableau is so deeply alien to their situation that she wants to sob.

        Instead, she grins, “that's amazing, baby. I'm so proud of you.”

        “You're a gift,” Margot sings his praises. When he is satisfied with their responses, he is rosy-cheeked and his smile seems to be affixed, bright as the sun, to his face.

        “I'm going to make two more,” he announces, more to himself than them, puffed with pride and purpose, “so we all have one."

        “Alright!” Margot's voice quietens then, into something far heavier. “I never thought this was possible. I never thought that,” her voice trembles, then, “I never thought that I would get to have this. I was never… I wasn't allowed this for so long, Alana. I can't… I can't lose it. I can't lose you.”

        Terror claims her heart, heavy as a claw, piercing into the vulnerable muscle of it, but it is not her terror; it is Margot's. It is desperate and ravaging, needing to be comforted. To it, the Alana that met her, all burning with righteous fury, an icon of Testament vengeance, is momentarily revived; fear morphs into fury, into purpose, as she watches her son with wet eyes. Here, there is nothing real but them and the threat that looms above them, bright as a guillotine, and if there is nothing real, there is nothing bar what is before her that can protect them. Will Graham is an intangibility. Jack Crawford is a fairytale. The FBI's power is nothing more than smoke and mirrors, when it comes to Hannibal Lecter. The only certainty is herself.

        “You're not going to.” Her voice is iron, steel; her grip is soft. “I won't let him.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic! I adore Margot and Alana, and I really wish we got to see a more intimate glimpse into their life and developing relationship. If you like, I would really appreciate kudos / comments! 
> 
> You can also reach me at my blog: @bedannigram on Tumblr!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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